After a grueling week at the office, I longed for an escape,
a way to forget the monotony of my miserable job.
Just like others sought solace in various ways, I would head to
my sawmill. This place, a rustic haven
nestled in a clearing amidst thick woods, held a special
place in my heart. It had been passed down through
generations, starting with my grandfather, who had left it to
my dad. My father had tried to turn it
into a business, but eventually gave it to me when it didn't pan
out. It may not have been a fancy
operation lacking the big sophisticated machines, but it
carried the legacy of my family and I cherished it.
The journey to the sawmill was always an adventure in itself.
A winding dirt Rd. deep into the woods took me there in about 15
to 20 minutes, depending on my driving speed.
When I arrived, the distinct aroma of sawdust greeted me,
intertwined with the earthy scent of the surrounding forest.
My boots crunched against the gravel driveway as I stepped out
of my car, and a smile crept across my face as I anticipated
the weekend ahead. The old wooden building,
weathered by time, had a rustic beauty of its own, painted in a
faded red with peeling paint. My trusty pickup truck, which I
used to transport logs, was parked in front.
The golden light streaming through dusty windows bathed the
interior in a warm glow. Tools hung neatly on the walls
and work benches still bore the remnants of wood chips from my
last project. At the heart of the room stood
the imposing saw, capable of slicing through even the
thickest logs as I thought about the table I was about to craft
for my friend Matt's front porch, the forest that
surrounded the sawmill beckoned as a source of inspiration.
Venturing deeper than ever before, I sought out smaller
trees and branches with an idea to repurpose them into something
special. For Matt.
The woods seem to stretch infinitely, the scent of pine
heavy in the air and the ground carpeted with fallen leaves.
It was serene but faintly eerie, making my senses tingle with
anticipation. After some time, I found what I
needed. Small pine trees that had fallen
naturally, creating an opportunity for repurposing.
I carefully cut them into manageable pieces, knowing I'd
have to make several trips to transport them to my pickup,
which couldn't navigate the deeper woods.
With each step, my unease grew, a sense of foreboding I couldn't
shake, but I shrugged it off as paranoia, convinced I was merely
lost in the unfamiliar part of the woods.
However, that unease escalated into full blown fear when I
glimpsed a figure behind me, a man standing near a tree.
My heart raced as I quickened my pace, my mind racing with
thoughts of why someone would be here in the woods.
I dropped my cargo running as fast as I could back to the
sawmill. Panic set in as I considered my
options. Should I get into my truck, or
would he catch up before I could escape?
Instead, I opted to reach the sawmill first.
I burst through the door, locking it and shutting the
blinds. My heart pounded as I clutched a
piece of wood, my only means of defense.
The man outside remained motionless, casting a sinister
shadow under the door. Time seemed to stretch
indefinitely, my mind racing for answers.
Who was he? Why was he chasing me through
the woods? The fear that gripped me
intensified with each passing. 2nd, what do you want?
I shouted, my voice trembling. This is private property.
Leave, or you'll be shot. My threat hung in the air,
though it was an empty one, but the man remained outside,
reciting incomprehensible words in a strange rhythmic cadence.
It was like a chant, unsettling and eerie.
My memory becomes hazy after that.
It's as if a fog blankets the events obscuring my
recollection. One moment I held a piece of
wood, and the next I found myself on the floor, my head
throbbing with pain. I surveyed my surroundings, and
to my relief, the door remained locked, the windows intact.
As I regained my senses, I became aware of something
outside, a creature running around the sawmill, growling and
hissing. It wasn't the man who had
pursued me earlier. Through the shuttered windows I
glimpsed fur and four legs. The creature's presence sent
chills down my spine. After a few more laps, it
abruptly darted away into the darkness.
I sat on the floor, trembling, unable to comprehend the bizarre
turn of events. The place that it offered me
comfort had turned into a nightmarish ordeal.
I could feel my heart racing, my mind spinning.
I clung to the stick in my hand, ready to defend myself against
whatever came next. Hours seemed to pass, or maybe
it was only minutes. The man remained outside,
motionless, while I struggled to make sense of the situation.
Who were these people, and what did they want?
Eventually the eerie silence was broken, but not by the man.
Instead, something else, something with four legs and
fur, circled the sawmill. It growled and hissed, its
presence A haunting enigma. When it finally retreated into
the woods, I couldn't stay inside any longer.
With trembling hands, I unlocked the door, cautiously opening it.
The night was pitch black, and the moon cast eerie shadows in
every direction. I stepped outside, clutching the
piece of wood tightly. The stillness was oppressive,
devoid of the usual forest sounds.
No crickets, no owls, just an eerie void of silence.
I made my way to my car, parked by the road, but before I could
drive away I heard something an unfamiliar, unsettling noise
emanating from the woods. Slowly, I turned my head toward
the source and locked eyes with two large glowing orbs.
My stomach churned as I realized they belong to the creature that
had been circling the sawmill. In that moment, it produced a
sound so spine chilling and malevolent that it would haunt
my nightmares forever. I slammed my foot on the gas
pedal and speed away, dust and smoke billowing behind me.
I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw the creature trailing
me, but I was driving too fast for it to catch up.
Finally, I reached the main road, and with a sigh of relief,
I knew I was close to safety. The creature ceased its pursuit
and I speed away, my heart still pounding with fear.
When I arrived home, I was overwhelmed by exhaustion and
stress, and I collapsed into a deep sleep.
Three years have passed since that horrifying encounter, and I
still have no answers. I've never returned to the
sawmill, not after that nightmarish ordeal.
The memory of the strange man's chanting and the haunting
presence in the woods is etched into my mind forever, a chilling
reminder of the unknown horrors that exist in the world.
In 1984, I found myself entangled in a horrifying tale
of darkness and despair, one that would forever haunt the
remote wilderness of Manly Springs, Alaska.
This sinister narrative revolved around the enigmatic figure of
Michael Silca, whose actions would cast an indelible shadow
over the communities he touched. The mystery shrouding his
motivations and the fate of some of his victims only added to the
tragedy that unfolded before us. As I delved deeper into the
eerie depths of this story, it became apparent that Michael
Silca was not an ordinary man. His life was punctuated by a
chilling fascination with firearms and the untamed
wilderness, a combination that often LED individuals down
treacherous paths. Silca's criminal history was a
harrowing testament to his sinister inclinations, featuring
arrests for robbery and weapons possession.
It painted a portrait of a deeply troubled individual whose
attraction to firearms and outdoor living bordered on
obsession. The events that transpired in
Manly Springs, Alaska, in 1984 were particularly terrifying.
Silka's involvement in the disappearance of several
innocent souls, followed by a harrowing shootout with law
enforcement that claimed the life of Trooper Troy Duncan,
sent shockwaves through the community.
The fact that some of the victims bodies were never
recovered added an extra layer of sorrow and despair to this
grim tale. Silca's motivations for his
heinous actions remained A perplexing enigma.
It was a baffling conundrum to comprehend what drove a person
to commit such unspeakable acts, especially when they chose to
take their own life in the process, as Silca did during the
fateful confrontation with the law.
Without a deeper understanding of his mental state and the
circumstances that surrounded his crimes, it felt nearly
impossible to fathom why he embarked on this dark journey.
The case of Michael Silca served as a stark reminder of the
intricacies of human behavior and the daunting challenges that
law enforcement faces when dealing with heavily armed
individuals teetering on the brink of violence.
It underscored the importance of community support in the
tireless efforts made by authorities and the grieving
families of the victims to seek justice and find closure in the
face of such unspeakable tragedy.
The story of 1984 unfurled like a chilling nightmare in the
remote wilderness of Manly Springs, Alaska, as Michael
Silca, an Illinois native, embarked on a macabre killing
spree. Silca's lifelong fascination
with the wilderness and firearms had marked his teenage years
with troubling encounters with the law.
His obsession with the great outdoors and firearms drove him
to commit multiple robberies of sporting goods, stores seeking
camping equipment and guns. At one point, he even ran away
to the Canadian wilderness with his brother, returning only when
their supplies dwindled. However, Silca's legal troubles
persisted as he frequently found himself detained and fined for
openly carrying a 19th century muzzle loader in 1978.
In a desperate bid for structure, Silca enlisted in the
United States Army in 1978. Despite his exceptional skills
with weapons during basic training, his unruly behavior,
including discharging his gun in the barracks and assaulting a
military police officer, led to his discharge in 1981.
Back in civilian life, Silca's penchant for trouble continued.
In 1982, he was pulled over by a traffic patrolman who discovered
a collection of firearms and knives in his car, resulting in
a brief jail sentence. A similar incident occurred in
1983, prompting Silca to flee to the remote Alaskan village of
Chain A Ridge. However, trouble seemed to
follow him even to the wilderness.
His neighbor, Rodger Culp, mysteriously went missing, and
while Culp's body was never found, traces of blood near his
home implicated Silca as a prime suspect.
Before law enforcement could question him further, Silca
vanished, only to reappear in Manly Springs about a month
later. Silca, seemingly a survivalist
in his element, impressed the locals with his outdoor skills.
However, the tragedy struck when 6 locals, including a pregnant
woman and a young child, disappeared near the boat
landing. Authorities discovered blood and
shell casings at the scene, once again casting suspicion on
Silca. This time, Silca fled with a
stolen boat, setting off a dramatic manhunt.
A day later, authorities located him 25 miles away from Manly
Springs. In a tense and fatal
confrontation, Silca opened fire on law enforcement, fatally
shooting Trooper Troy Duncan and injuring Captain Donald
Lawrence. In response, officers returned
fire, ultimately killing Silca. After Silca's death, the search
for the missing victims intensified, with four bodies
eventually being recovered months later.
However, the remains of the other four victims, including
Rodger Culp, remained undiscovered.
The motivations behind Silca's violent actions died, with him
leaving a haunting mystery lurking in the Alaskan
wilderness. The tragic case of Michael Silca
served as a grim reminder of the intricate and often bewildering
nature of human behavior. It highlighted the daunting
challenges faced by law enforcement when confronting
heavily armed individuals on the brink of violence.
It also emphasized the crucial role of community support in the
tireless efforts of authorities and the grief stricken families
of the victims, who relentlessly sought justice and closure in
the wake of such a nightmarish ordeal.
The holiday season was always the busiest time of year for
U.S. Postal workers, with people
shifting gifts and cards going out.
Our workload doubled in December at the very least, but after the
bizarre incident I had delivering packages a few days
before Christmas several years back, I started to dread those
festive months. Even now I get anxious doing my
route when the holidays roll around.
I'd worked for the post office in my hometown for over a decade
when this went down. I really enjoyed it for the most
part. Sure, the job could be
stressful, especially during the holiday crunch, but I like the
feeling of providing an important service, being out and
about, delivering letters and parcels.
It suited my tendencies as a creature of habit.
I even had my route down to a science knowing exactly how long
each block would take. In 2015, the week before
Christmas was an absolute madhouse.
As usual, every day my truck was packed floor to ceiling with
boxes and overflowing bags of mail.
The packages were especially out of control.
It seemed like every individual in town was getting online gifts
shipped from retailers. By December 23rd I was exhausted
from the non-stop influx. My route that day was crammed
with over 300 packages for delivery, all locked and loaded
in the back of my truck. As I set out, light snow started
to fall, adding an extra challenge.
I knew this was going to be a long slog, but despite being
worn out, I methodically worked my way down each St. dropping
off boxes and envelopes at every address.
The neighborhood I was in had a lot of cute older homes decked
out for the holidays with lights and inflatables which helped to
brighten the dreary weather. About two hours in, I pulled up
to a yellow two-story house on Walnut Street that had an
unusually large pile of boxes waiting on the porch.
I parked and gathered the things I would be delivering.
As I arranged them on the welcome mat, I noticed the door
was cracked about an inch through the gap.
There was only darkness inside. Feeling uneasy, I rang the bell
and knocked, calling out a greeting.
No response, no movement from within.
I checked the shipping labels, verifying that this was indeed
the correct address they were delivered to.
Glancing around behind me, the whole block seemed oddly still
and quiet when I peered back through the door crack.
It was pitch dark, not a single light on in there.
A prickle of dread crept up my spine.
I knew something wasn't right here.
My instinct was to call the police, but without enough
evidence of anything actually wrong happening besides a dark
house and an open door with piled packages, I didn't know if
they would even respond. I went back to my truck and
deliberated on what to do. Starting to drive away, didn't
sit right with me. What if someone inside was hurt?
I decided I had to check to be sure.
Taking a deep breath, I slowly pushed the front door all the
way open and looked around. I called out who I was and that
I was there to deliver packages from the USPS.
No reply came back. Turning on my flashlight, I
waved the beam around over everything.
The front rooms were orderly, if sparsely furnished, and a fine
layer of dust coated surfaces hinting that no one had been
there in a while. I took tentative steps down the
hallway, checking each room as I went.
Bedrooms in the kitchen were just as neatly abandoned, but
there was no sign of who belonged there or where they'd
gone. It was like the occupants had
simply vanished without taking anything.
The further I explored each empty room, the more ominous the
atmosphere felt. Disturbingly, there was also no
holiday decor or anything to suggest that the people who
lived here had been planning to celebrate, which might have been
the case considering all the packages they'd had delivered
just an empty shell of a suburban home.
As I approached the closed door at the end of the hall, my dread
peaked. I knew that if there was any
evidence of what happened to the occupants, it would be behind
that final barrier. Every instinct I had told me to
turn back, but I'd come this far, and I had to know.
With a deep breath, I turned the knob and pushed it open.
The stench hit me first, decay and bodily waste resisting
nausea. I shone my light into what
looked like a child's room. It was empty except for a small
shape curled up in the corner. My heart dropped when the beam
illuminated, a young girl, motionless and facing the wall.
I took a step closer, dreading but expecting the worst.
That's when her head turned sharply towards me, her eyes
wild, clouded white blood around cracked lips.
My light reflected off, something clutched in her hand,
torn flesh hanging from exposed bone.
I recoiled in horror as a strangled, inhuman growl erupted
from the girl. Every cell in my body scream to
run. I backpedaled just as she
lunged, narrowly missing my wrist as I crashed through the
doorway. The sound that came from her was
part shriek, part gurgling snarl assaulting my ears as I fled
down the hall, bursting outside. I slam the front door behind me.
Through it came anguished cries as I half tumbled into my truck
and speed off down the street. My mind was in shambles trying
to process what I'd witnessed in that innocuous suburban home.
I drove straight to the police station in shock.
My report brought a swarm of vehicles out to Walnut St. along
with an ambulance, but when they entered the home there was no
sign of the girl having been there, just an abandoned home
with doors now locked and no clues left behind with no proof
besides my word. The cops wrote it off as holiday
stress, or perhaps an encounter with a home intruder during a
delivery, but I knew what I saw, and those soulless eyes staring
back still haunt me to this day. I put in for a new route the
next week, wanting no part of that neighborhood again.
For a couple of years afterwards, around Christmas,
families on Walnut St. reported sounds of anguished cries coming
from inside the walls of the empty house each night.
But by morning, silence returned.
Eventually the home would be demolished, an evil that leaves
wounds beyond the physical. I still don't know what happened
there, but some nights when I close my eyes, I feel like I can
see that little girl's twisted face leering back from the
darkness. Just remembering what was in
that house is enough to make my blood run cold.
The story I'm about to share is a chilling tale that unfolds in
the heart of rural southern Ohio, near the edge of the
sprawling Appalachian Trail. It's a place where as you grow
up, you always hear unsettling ghost stories about what happens
when the sun dips below the horizon.
To truly understand this story, it's essential to describe the
layout of my grandparents property.
My grandparents house is nestled on a vast expanse of five acres
encircled by dense, imposing Woodlands.
On their property there are seven different trails that wind
their way around, primarily used for hunting.
On this particular day, my brother and I decided to embark
on a journey along these trails much like we usually did,
enjoying the thrill of riding 4 Wheelers and savoring the serene
beauty of my grandparents secluded property.
The trail we chose LED us through the woods, and it
eventually forked into two distinct paths to the left.
The trail looped back toward the house, while the other route led
to a Creek where we could sit and observe the abundant
wildlife. Intrigued by the prospect of
caring for animals and searching for intriguing rocks, a hobby of
mine, we opted to head down to the Creek.
The dense underbrush and trees on this particular trail made it
impossible for the four Wheeler to proceed, so we left it behind
and ventured forth on foot. The path to the Creek stretched
for about a mile, and as we walked, the late afternoon sun
filtered through the trees, casting long, eerie shadows.
It was a crisp fall evening, and a slight breeze rustled the
leaves, creating an unsettling Symphony of rustling.
After a brisk walk, my brother and I eventually reached the
Creek. We spent about 15 minutes
strolling alongside the water, reveling in the tranquillity of
the secluded spot as we continued our exploration.
Our footsteps LED us to a discovery we had not expected, a
decrepit, broken down shed. It was a shed we had never seen
before and it piqued our curiosity.
It's crucial to mention that my grandparents property was well
marked with boundary indicators. The shed we encountered was on
the opposite side of the Creek and it stood as a silent enigma.
My brother and I exchanged puzzled glances, but soon my
brother's attention was diverted by something else.
He moved on, eager to explore further.
However, I couldn't tear my eyes away from the shed.
I felt drawn to it, as though some unseen force compelled me
to investigate further. I called out to my brother,
urging him to return. I suggested we should check out
The Shed in more detail, but my brother had never been a fan of
anything remotely scary, and the sight of the rundown structure
did not interest him. Reluctantly, we decided to
return to the house, and the shed slipped from our thoughts.
That night, something strange and unsettling began to happen.
For some inexplicable reason, I kept waking up with feverish
dreams drenched in cold sweat. It was as if a heavy cloud of
dread hung over me and I couldn't shake the feeling of
impending doom. I experienced episodes of sleep
paralysis, my mind trapped in a nightmarish cycle of fear.
In these terrifying visions, I found myself standing on the
left side of the Creek, gazing at the rundown shed.
In the dream, the sheds door would creak open, releasing a
dark, malevolent mist, and then a pair of ominous, glowing eyes
would materialize within the fog.
It was as if I were being drawn closer against my will toward
that dreadful shed. I would be dragged inside by
some invisible force, and in my dream I would never return.
The sensation was nightmarish, and it plagued my restless
slumber throughout the night. The following day, I couldn't
shake off the haunting images and sensations that had besieged
me. Determined to confront this
unsettling place and find some semblance of closure, I decided
to return to the site of the shed.
However, when I arrived, it was as though the shed had vanished
into thin air. I scoured the area, searching
high and low, but there was no trace of it.
I even asked my brother, who insisted that there had never
been a shed there. The inexplicable nature of the
sheds disappearance left me questioning my own sanity.
Had I experienced some kind of supernatural encounter, or was
it all a product of my overactive imagination?
To this day, I remain haunted by the enigmatic shed by the Creek.
Uncertain of what truly transpired on that eerie autumn
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Just creepy 20. In the summer of 2005, I was
just 16 years old working my first part time job at the local
McDonald's in suburban Oregon. It wasn't exactly the way I had
envisioned spending my summer, but I knew that I needed to
start saving money if I wanted to go to college.
To make matters worse, I was almost always scheduled to work
the closing shift. The restaurant, usually bustling
with activity during the day, took on a different character at
night, a quiet, eerie character. The clock on the wall seemed to
crawl towards midnight. As my shift manager, Sarah and I
went through the closing routine.
Sarah and I actually attended the same high school, and though
she was two grades above me, we had become acquainted over the
course of many closing shifts together over the past month.
The Friars had cooled down, the grills were scrubbed clean, and
the dining area was nearly deserted, with only a few
straggling customers remaining nursing the last sips of their
sodas. That's when he walked in, a
tall, lanky man, probably in his late 30s, clad in a baggy
stained jacket and a faded black baseball cap that shadowed his
face. His eyes darted around the
restaurant with unsettling intensity as he shuffled towards
the counter. I realized with a chill that I
had seen him earlier that night, lingering near the drink
station, but I hadn't thought much of it then.
Can I take your order, Sir? Sarah asked with a polite smile,
but I could see her unease. The man mumbled something under
his breath, making it hard to catch what he wanted.
She repeated her question, and he leaned in closer, his eyes
fixed on Sarah's name tag. Sarah.
He read aloud, A sinister smile tugging at the corners of his
lips. You're a friendly one, Sarah.
My heart began to race, and I busied myself with wiping down
tables. Keeping a close eye on the
unsettling exchange, Sarah completed the order, a small
meal seemingly chosen at random, and handed the man his tray.
He then went off to sit at a corner booth, staring towards
the front counter with unblinking eyes.
As the minutes ticked by and the few remaining customers finished
their meals and departed, and eerie silence descended upon the
restaurant. It was just me, Sarah, and the
stranger in the corner when I rejoined Sarah behind the
counter, she whispered to me. I don't like this guy.
He's giving me the creeps. I nodded, feeling a cold shiver
run down my spine. The man never even touched his
food, never took a bite. Instead, he just sat there
watching Sarah like a hungry predator observing his prey.
Finally, Sarah suggested we wrap up our closing duties, hoping
the man would get the hint and leave.
We wipe down the remaining tables, lock the doors, and
started turning off the lights. But when we glanced over at the
corner, the man was still there. My anxiety skyrocketed as Sarah
took in a breath and said in a shaking voice.
Sir, I apologize, but we closed 10 minutes ago.
You'll need to get ready to go. The man remained still as if he
hadn't heard her. After an uncomfortably quiet
moment, Sarah said to me. We need to call the cops.
This is just too strange. As she moved towards the panic
button under the register, the man suddenly stood up, nearly
knocking the table over. Now his eyes were wide and he
began muttering something incoherent.
I could feel my heart pounding in my chest as he took a step
towards us, his movements erratic and unpredictable.
Without speaking, Sarah and I rushed to the back office.
I can remember watching her fumble with her ring of manager
keys to unlock it. It probably only lasted a few
seconds, but it felt like it took forever for her to find the
right key and jam it into the lock.
Finally, we stumbled into the cramped office and locked the
flimsy door behind us. I could hear the man's footsteps
behind us, his deranged muttering growing louder.
Sarah repeatedly pushed the panic button while dialing 911
on the office phone. Dispatch assured us that help
was on the way, but I couldn't shake the feeling that this man
was going to break the door down at any second.
When the police finally arrived, they found the man hiding in the
restroom, crouched in a stall like some sort of trapped
animal. He was arrested, but I will
never forget the madness in his eyes, the way he had fixated on
Sarah like a predator. The investigation revealed that
the man apparently had a history of disturbing behavior at other
local chain restaurants and he had been on the run from the
authorities. I couldn't believe how close we
had come to something unspeakable happening to us.
In the dimly lit back office of a McDonald's of all places, I
thanked my lucky stars that Sarah and I had managed to
escape safely from this midnight creeper who had terrified 2
teenage girls working at the local McDonald's.
I had no idea what he had intended for us that night, but
I hoped he got whatever help he needed.
I don't quite know how to begin recounting the terrifying ordeal
that unfolded just an hour ago. I'm still trembling with fear as
I put these words down, but I feel compelled to share this
chilling experience. My friend and I are currently
home alone, and we've been in this state of solitude for a few
hours now. Whenever he comes over, our
usual ritual is to venture into the woods behind my house.
Ordinarily our woodland excursions are uneventful,
filled with playful rock throwing and harmless tree
breaking antics. However, tonight was different.
As I mentioned, we were alone at home for quite some time and
that's when we decided to head outside to the woods.
The initial part of our journey seemed like any other.
The path was dimly lit by the setting sun, and our footsteps
echoed through the silence. But as we venture deeper into
the woods, an eerie feeling began to creep over us.
Something just felt off. The atmosphere was thick with an
unsettling tension. The once familiar forest had
transformed into an alien landscape.
Countless trees lay toppled, as if a powerful force had rampage
through the area, leaving chaos in its wake.
Despite this ominous change, we continued further into the
woods, engaging in our usual mischievous activities.
After a while, my friend turned to me, a hint of unease in his
eyes, and suggested that we should head back.
I glanced at my phone and realized we had only been in the
woods for 30 minutes. Figuring we had a few hours
before anyone would expect us home, I persuaded him to stay a
bit longer. Little did we know this decision
would lead us into a nightmarish encounter.
Our exploration took a more sinister turn as we stumbled
upon peculiar remnants scattered about.
An old crushed Coke can, possibly from a decade or two
ago, lay on the forest floor. Nearby, we discovered a toy boat
that had been mercilessly ravaged by the elements, a
testament to the passage of time.
It was as though we had stepped into a place untouched by the
modern world, where forgotten relics lingered.
We decided to venture deeper into the woods than I had ever
been before, which wasn't particularly challenging given
my limited past explorations. As we trekked further into the
wilderness, we reached a landmark that marked the
farthest point I had previously ventured.
A bridge made from a fallen log spanned A narrow river in the
heart of the forest. However, this time something was
different. Sitting atop the log bridge was
an object that sent shivers down our spines.
It appeared to be a small animal like head.
As we drew closer to get a better look, the realization
struck us like a hammer blow. It was a deer skull.
The skull was pristine, its bone bleached pearly white, and it
rested on the bridge without any apparent explanation.
It was an unsettling sight, leaving us wondering who had
placed it there and why, and where the rest of the deer's
remains might be. As we gazed at the eerie scene
before us, our attention was drawn to a massive hill on the
other side of the river. Perched atop the hill was a
dilapidated and creepy looking small house, its presence
sending a shiver down my spine. Something about that house
seemed utterly out of place in the depths of the woods.
Then the atmosphere suddenly changed.
A high pitched sound, like a distant creaking, reached our
ears, and it was steadily approaching.
Panic set in, and without a second thought I broke into a
Sprint, my heart pounding in my chest.
Behind me. I heard my friend scream, and
his footsteps echoed my own as he sprinted to catch up.
We ran blindly through the darkened forest, our breaths
ragged and fear gnawing at our souls.
Finally we burst out of the woods and onto the road, gasping
for breath. I asked my friend why he had
screamed, and he told me that he had heard footsteps right beside
him. Even as we were running, the
realization that something had been lurking in the woods with
us, concealed in the shadows, was almost too much to bear.
We hurried back home, our hearts still racing.
As we approach the house, we noticed that the garage door was
ajar. We couldn't remember if we had
left it open or not, but we didn't want to take any chances.
We rushed inside, locking all the doors, meticulously checking
every room, and setting the alarm system in a state of high
alert. To this day, I can't explain
what was out there in the woods with us that night.
The deer skull on the bridge and the eerie house on the hill
remain, haunting symbols of an encounter with an inexplicable
and malevolent presence. It was an experience that
chilled us to the bone, and I'm left with a lingering fear of
what dwells in the depths of those woods.
I live on the outskirts of Buffalo, a city that never seems
to sleep despite its bustling nature.
Life on the outskirts can be eerily quiet, especially in the
small town where I recently began working at the local
library. The library is a grand old
building with thousands of books, and it sees a constant
stream of people coming and going throughout the day.
I've been employed here for almost four months now, and
during that time I've experienced some strange and
unsettling incidents that have left me questioning the reality
of the world around me. One particular incident stands
out in my memory. It was a typical day at the
library and I had just finished using the restroom.
As I exited the stall and reached for my purse, I noticed
an elderly woman standing at the sink.
She appeared friendly, wearing a brown sweater and a tan skirt.
I smiled at her before turning to grab my purse, but I heard no
door close or footsteps indicating her departure.
When I turned back around, she had vanished without a trace.
Confused, I left the restroom and returned to the front desk
to continue my work, trying to push the strange encounter to
the back of my mind. A few weeks later I was working
an overnight shift with my Co worker Amy.
It was late, and we were tasked with restocking the shelves for
the next day's patrons. I was responsible for handling
reference materials which required me to go down to the
lowest floor of the library. The late night atmosphere always
made me feel uneasy and the hallways were eerily quiet.
The elevator ride down was accompanied by a high pitched
electric hum that seemed to echo through the semi dark corridors.
As I stepped out of the elevator and entered a room, I was
greeted by darkness. This room was always supposed to
be well lit as it housed expensive records under
surveillance. I headed down the hallway to
reach the light switch, my unease growing, but as I flipped
the switch and turned to leave, I heard a soft sound behind me.
My heart raced as I realized that my book cart had moved from
where I had left it and now sat by a chair in the middle of the
room. I considered the possibility
that the cart's wheels weren't locked and the uneven floor had
caused it to roll. With a handful of books.
I started placing them back on the shelves along the wall.
That's when I caught a glimpse of movement.
Something tan, darting past the edge of a bookshelf.
Fear surged through me as I knew that only Amy and I were
supposed to be in the building. At this hour, our petite
statures were hardly a match for an intruder.
My hand instinctively reached for my phone with security's
number on speed dial. I was about to call Harry our
night guard, when I heard another noise rounding the
corner of a shelf. With a heavy book in one hand, I
continued along the shelves, pretending the book offered some
form of protection. My trembling fingers dialed
Harry's number, and I explained what I had seen.
He immediately sounded concerned and assured me he would check
the security cameras. My eyes darted around the
darkened room as I waited for his response.
That's when I heard it, the soft taps outside the door.
It was a small study room with a glass wall, and I could see a
figure crumpled underneath a low wooden table.
The person was wearing tattered brown clothes, had a long,
unkempt beard and wild, manic eyes.
My breath caught in my throat as I noticed something glinting in
his hand, a silver and black object coated in aged brown
colors. Perhaps rust, perhaps something
far more sinister. Terror course through me, and I
couldn't stop the tears from flowing as I sat there,
paralyzed by fear. I knew he couldn't get to me as
long as the glass held, but the sheer panic and dread
overwhelmed me. I sobbed quietly, helpless and
trapped after what felt like an eternity.
I mustered the courage to call Harry again, explaining the dire
situation. He promised to call the police
and check on me regularly. The police arrived about 10
minutes later, but by that time the man had become more
unhinged. He repeatedly slammed the blade
into the window, his lips twisted in a grotesque smile,
some sick pleasure from his violent actions.
The officers had to wrestle with him, and one of them was cut on
the arm by the blade before they managed to disarm and subdue
him. I provided my statement to the
police and a few days later I reached out to get more
information about the intruder. It turned out that he had been
under the influence of drugs and had been seeking shelter for the
night. When he saw me, he assumed I
would throw him out, leading him to stalk me with murderous
intent. Following that harrowing
incident, the library increased its security measures, and Amy
and I made a pact to never leave each other's side during our
shifts. But even with these precautions
in place, I couldn't shake the feeling of being watched or the
fear that someone might lurk in the shadows.
The trauma of that night continues to haunt me, and I
know it will be a long time before I stop looking over my
shoulder or jumping at every little noise in the dark.
There's a certain kind of freedom you.
Feel when you're hundreds of feet above the ground, nothing
but open air and a whispering breeze, your only companions.
That's where I find my peace. Or at least what passes for
peace in my book. My name isn't important, but
what I do now, that's another story.
I'm the guy you see in those YouTube videos, clinging to a
cell tower like a spider to its web.
In the heart of Appalachia. It's not just a job for me, it's
the closest thing to feeling alive.
I never did finish high school. The walls of a classroom felt
more like a prison than anything educational, So I took to the
wild. The open spaces where rules were
suggestions and risks were a way of life In these parts.
Jobs aren't exactly growing on trees, especially for someone
with a resume as thin as mine, but cell tower technician that
fit the bill just fine. It was like the job was made for
a screw up adrenaline junkie like me.
The thing about these towers, they're not just ladders to the
sky, they're gateways to a thrill you can't find anywhere
else. I'm talking about BASE jumping,
the art of leaping off a fixed object with nothing but a
parachute in a prayer. There's a raw purity in that
moment of free fall where the world stands still and you're
suspended in time. It's the grown up version of
jumping off your roof with a bed sheet, except you're playing for
keeps. The morning they sent me out to
that tower, about 50 miles from the semblance of civilization,
the world was draped in a fine mist, the kind that locals say
is perfect for moonshining, staying indoors and getting lost
in a bottle. I should have listened, should
have stayed in bed, but the call of that tower looming in the
distance was too strong to ignore.
I packed my gear into the back of my beat up Jeep, the
parachute neatly folded, a silent promise of the jump to
come. There's something about
preparing for a climb, a jump that's almost ceremonial.
It's a dance with danger, a flirtation with fate, and I love
every second of it. The drive out to the site was a
journey through a world half asleep.
Mist hung low, blanketing the hollows and ridges in a ghostly
shroud. Appalachia has a way of holding
secrets, and in that fog it felt like driving through a dream,
The kind of dream you're not sure you want to wake up from.
I reached the tower, a behemoth of steel and wires, a silent
Sentinel in the midst of nowhere.
Graffiti covered the base, colorful scars on its Gray skin,
stories left by others who dared to venture this far.
But today, it was just me. The tower and a sky waiting to
be conquered climbing that tower.
Was like. Shaking hands with destiny.
Each rung was a step further from the world below.
A world too small, too confined. Up there among the clouds.
I was free. Free from expectations from past
mistakes. Just a man, a tower and a sky
full of possibilities. I thought I knew fear, Thought I
had seen it all. But that day, that climb, it was
about to show me that fear has many faces, and some of them are
beyond anything you can imagine. The world was still draped in
1/2 light when I set off that morning, The kind of Gray dawn
that clings to the Appalachian hollows like a lingering dream.
My Jeep, a faithful but battered steed, seemed to grumble in
protest as I coaxed it to life, its engine rumbling, a rough
melody that spoke of many a mile and many a story.
Driving through those winding mountain roads, I couldn't help
but feel a kinship with the rugged landscape around me.
The mist hung heavy, a blanket that obscured the world beyond,
turning familiar sights into shadows and mysteries.
It was as if the mountains themselves were whispering
secrets. Tales of old miners and
forgotten trails of lives lived hard and lost young.
I've always found a certain solace in solitude, a comfort in
the isolation that these remote places offer.
Out here, a man could be his true self, unshackled from the
expectations and norms of society.
In the quiet of these mountains, with only the sound of my Jeeps
tires on the gravel Rd. for company, I felt that old
familiar sense of freedom stirring within me.
As I neared the tower, the reality of the task at hand
began to set in. This wasn't just another climb.
It was an opportunity to push the boundaries, to test myself
against the elements and the heights.
The thought brought a grin to my face, A rush of adrenaline that
made my heartbeat faster. BASE jumping was more than a
hobby for me. It was a challenge, a way to
prove to myself that I was more than just another dropout, more
than just another face in the crowd.
The tower itself stood like a Sentinel, a monolith of steel
and cables that reached defiantly into the sky.
It was a testament to human ingenuity and audacity, a
structure that defied nature even as it became a part of the
landscape. As I.
Parked my Jeep and gathered. My gear.
I couldn't help but feel a sense of awe.
Here was a creation that stood tall and unyielding, a challenge
to the heavens themselves. But as I approached, something
felt off. The tower, usually a symbol of
strength and stability, seemed almost foreboding in the misty
light. The graffiti that adorned its
base, usually a vibrant splash of color and expression, seemed
muted and somber. It was as though the tower was
warning me, telling me that this climb would be different, that
this time the stakes were higher.
I shook off the feeling, chalking it up to the early hour
in the eerie weather. After all, I had come here for a
purpose, and I wasn't about to be deterred by a bit of fog and
a trick of the light. With a deep breath, I shouldered
my pack and began the ascent, each step taking me closer to
the sky and further from the doubts that nipped at my heels.
But as I climbed, the fog seemed to thicken, wrapping the tower
and me in a shroud of uncertainty.
I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being watched, that
there were eyes in the mist following my every move.
It was a sensation that crawled along my spine, a whisper of
danger that I couldn't quite ignore.
I pushed on, determined to reach the top, to complete the job and
make the jump. But deep down I knew that this
climb was different. This time I wasn't just
challenging the tower or the sky.
This time I was challenging the very forces of nature, and the
feeling in my gut told me that they weren't about to back down.
The first steps of a climb are like the opening moves in a
chess game, calculated routine but charged with the
anticipation of the unknown. As I began my ascent up the cell
tower, each rung was a familiar friend under my hands, cold and
unyielding. The mist swirled around me, a
ghostly dance partner that moved with a life of its own.
Climbing a tower is a rhythm, a meditative process that's more
about patience and persistence than strength.
One hand over the other, the steady bead of boots on metal
rungs. It's a ritual that I've come to
know as well as the lines on my palms.
Yet with every step upward, I felt a thrill, an electric
tingle of danger and excitement that's as addictive as any drug.
The fog was a shroud, wrapping the world below in a blanket of
obscurity. It's not unusual for fog to
settle in these valleys, but as I climbed higher, I expected it
to thin, to reveal the grandeur of the Appalachian spread out
below. Instead, it grew denser,
enveloping me in a world that felt increasingly detached from
the ground. There's something about being
high above the earth, suspended between sky and soil, that puts
things into perspective. Up here, the troubles and trials
of everyday life seemed trivial, inconsequential.
The higher I climbed, the more I felt like I was shedding the
weight of the world, leaving it far below.
But as I ascended, something nagged at the back of my mind, a
whisper of unease that I couldn't quite shake.
It was the feeling you get when you know you're not alone, that
prickling sensation on the back of your neck, I told myself.
It was just the isolation playing tricks on me, the eerie
silence amplified by the fog. Halfway up, I paused to rest,
clipping my carabiner to a rung for a moment of respite.
Hanging there, suspended in a world of mist, I let my eyes
drift downward. A cardinal sin for climbers, but
a temptation too strong to resist.
That's when I saw it. Below me, obscured by the
swirling fog, was a shape. It clung to the tower like some
nightmarish creature from a forgotten folklore, a shadow
within shadows. My first thought was that it was
another climber, maybe some foolhardy soul, seeking the same
thrill I was. But something about the way it
moved, the unnatural stillness of its form set off alarms in my
mind. Who's there?
I called out, my voice swallowed by the mist.
No answer came back, just the echo of my own words, distorted
and strange. The shape didn't move, didn't
respond. It just hung there, a part of
the tower and yet wholly alien. I shook my head, trying to
dispel the creeping dread that was starting to take hold.
It was probably just a trick of the light, a figment of my
imagination spurred by the solitude and the strange
atmosphere. With a deep breath, I unclipped
and resumed my climb, pushing the sighting to the back of my
mind. But as I ascended further into
the fog, the sense of foreboding grew stronger, a tangible
presence that seemed to cling to my skin.
Something was up there with me, hidden in the mist, and the
higher I climbed, the closer I felt to unveiling its mystery.
The higher I climbed, the more the world below seemed to fade
into a distant memory. The mist had turned from a mere
curtain to a dense, enveloping blanket, isolating me in a
sphere of eerie quiet. Up here it felt like I was
straddling 2 worlds, the familiar solid earth below and
something else, something unknown and unsettling above.
The strange shape I'd seen earlier was no longer visible,
but the impression it left was etched in my mind, a shadow that
loomed larger with every step I took.
I tried to focus on the climb, on the rhythmic motion of hand
over hand, the steady clink of my carabiner, but the quiet was
oppressive, filled with the weight of unspoken whispers.
Then it happened. I glanced down, a habit I
couldn't shake. And there it was, the shape
closer now unmistakably real and unnervingly wrong.
Its proportions defied logic, its limbs elongated and twisted
in ways that made my stomach churn.
The fog seemed to cling to it, caress it as if it were part of
the mist itself. I stopped, my heart hammering in
my chest, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
Fear, raw and primal, surged through me, a tidal wave that
threatened to sweep away my composure.
This was no human, no fellow thrill seeker.
This was something else, something other.
The creature, for I had no other word for it, moved with a grace
that belied its grotesque form. It ascended the tower with an
eerie, silent fluidity, its long, sinewy arms reaching and
pulling with unnatural ease. Its skin, visible in patches
through the fog, glistened like wet leather, reflecting the
muted light in a way that made my eyes ache.
I didn't want to look at its face, but some morbid curiosity
compelled me. It was a horror, a twisted
parody of human features stretched over a skull not meant
for them. The eyes, though, were the
worst. Pale Milky orbs that seemed to
stare through me, seeing more than I ever wanted anyone or
anything to see. Panic set in.
Then a cold, gripping panic that screamed at me to flee, to
escape this nightmare that was all too real.
But there was nowhere to go, nothing to do but climb, to put
distance between myself and the abomination below.
So I climbed faster than I ever had my mind, a whirlwind of fear
and confusion. Every rational part of me tried
to make sense of what I was seeing, to find some logical
explanation. But there was none, only the
stark, terrifying reality of the moment.
I dared another glance downward, and my blood ran cold.
It was gaining on me, closing the distance with an inexorable,
relentless determination. There was no.
Sound No. Animalistic growling or
snarling? Just the silent, methodical
pursuit of a predator in that. Moment I knew true.
Terror. A fear so deep and visceral that
it threatened to consume me. I was prey, haunted by something
beyond my understanding, something that defied the laws
of nature and man. All my life I'd sought thrills,
sought to push the boundaries of fear and excitement.
But this, this was different. This was a dance with death, and
I was woefully unprepared for the steps.
There's a point in every man's life when he faces something
that strips away all the bravado, all the illusions of
courage he's built up over the years.
For me, that moment came at the top of that God forsaken cell
tower shrouded in a mist that seemed to be the very breath of
the mountain itself. I had reached the summit, my
lungs burning, my muscles screaming in protest but
physical. Pain was a distant.
Concern compared to the terror that gnawed at my insides.
The creature that nightmare made flesh was still below me, a
relentless pursuer. In this vertical chase, the
towers top platform was my temporary refuge, a metal Oasis
in a sea of fog. But it was just that, temporary.
The trap door was locked, the padlock a cold, mocking barrier
to safety. I remember laughing, a short,
sharp bark of hysteria of all the times for protocol and
security to be followed to the letter.
I fumble for the key, my fingers numb and clumsy with fear.
But it wasn't there, lost or forgotten, It didn't matter.
I was trapped, with nowhere to go but down the BASE jump, the
reason I'd come up here in the first place, now my only chance
of escape. I've made dozens of jumps before
each a thrilling dance with danger.
But this was no thrill. This was survival.
I harnessed myself into the parachute with shaking hands, my
movements robotic, driven by the pure instinct to survive.
I glanced over the edge of the platform, the fog a seemingly
endless abyss below. Jumping into it was madness, a
leap into the unknown in the most literal sense, but the
alternative was unthinkable. I heard it then, The scrape of
skin on metal, the soft, almost gentle sound of the creature
pulling itself up the tower. I didn't dare look.
I couldn't. My entire being was focused on
the void in front of me. On the leap that I had to make,
I threw myself off the tower, a silent prayer escaping my lips.
The fall was a blur, time both stretching and compressing in a
disorienting maelstrom of sensation.
The cold air tore at my skin, the fog enveloping me, obscuring
everything. Then the parachute deployed, A
jarring, bone snapping jerk that transformed my freefall into a
controlled descent. I was a marionette, dangling
from the strings of my chute, at the mercy of the winds and the
whims of fate. The ground was invisible, the
usual visual cues hidden by the dense fog.
I was flying blind every second a question mark, every
heartbeat, a drum roll to an unknown finale.
Trees emerged from the mist like spectres, their branches
reaching for me like the fingers of ghosts.
I twisted, turned a desperate aerial dance to avoid their
clutches. Then the ground, a sudden,
jarring reality. I hit the fence, the razor wire,
a cruel, biting serpent. Pain exploded across my skin,
but it was background noise. A triviality compared to the
relief of solid earth beneath me.
I lay there, tangled in my chute, gasping for breath every
inhale. A sharp stab of pain.
But I was alive. Alive but not safe.
Not yet. I scrambled to my feet, every
movement, agony, and stumbled towards my Jeep.
Behind me, the tower loomed, a silent Sentinel in the fog.
I didn't look back. I couldn't.
I just drove. I drove until the mountains were
a distant line on the horizon, and the nightmare was nothing
but a memory but some memories. They cling to you like shadows
following you long after the dawn has come.
You'd think after an experience like that, life would feel
different, like waking up from a nightmare into a world where the
sun shines brighter and the air tastes sweeter.
But it doesn't work that way. Not for me, Not after what I
saw, what I felt on that tower. The drive back was a blur, my
mind a chaotic Whirlpool of fear and disbelief.
The Appalachian landscape, once a source of peace and solitude,
now felt oppressive, its secrets too dark, too deep.
My hands were locked on the steering wheel, white knuckled,
as if letting go would mean surrendering to the horror that
I'd left behind in those misty heights.
I ended up at the ER, more out of instinct than conscious
decision. The doctors and nurses gave me
odd looks as they patched me up. Stitches for the cuts, bandages
for the bruises. Their voices were distant,
muffled under the ringing in my ears, the echo of a terror I
couldn't shake. I told them I'd had an accident,
hiking, a fall. What else could I say?
That a creature out of a Horror Story had chased me up a cell
tower? They'd lock me up for sure, so I
stayed silent, letting them believe what they would.
Returning home was no relief. My house, once a haven, now felt
like a prison, The walls too close, the windows to open.
I kept seeing that thing in the shadows in the corner of my eye,
a persistent reminder of the fear that had sunk its claws
deep into my soul. Sleep was elusive, A fleeting,
restless state where nightmares waited.
I'd wake up in a cold sweat, the creature's Milky eyes boring
into mine. It's grotesque form a silhouette
against my bedroom wall. The days blurred into one
another, each the same as the last.
I kept to myself, avoiding the calls and texts from friends and
colleagues. I couldn't face them, couldn't
pretend that everything was fine, that I was the same man
I'd been before. And then the message from my
company. Another job, another tower.
The words on my phone's screen seemed to mock me, a cruel
reminder of a world I no longer belong to.
I couldn't go back, couldn't face the height, the mist, the
memory. So I ignored it, Ignored them
all. I'd find something else,
something grounded, something safe.
But safety is a lie, a thin veneer that masks the chaos
lurking just beneath the surface.
I sit now, looking out at the mountains that once called to
me, their peaks hidden in the mist.
They're different now, changed. Or maybe it's me who's changed,
who's seen the truth that hides in the fog, in the shadows.
The shotgun rests beside me, a cold comfort against fears I
can't escape. Maybe I'll get a dog, maybe 2,
something to fill the silence, to chase away the shadows.
But the mist is back, and with it the memories, the fear.
And I know deep down that no amount of locks on the doors or
rounds in the chamber will keep it at Bay.
So I sit and wait, watching as the fog rolls in, wondering what
other secrets it hides, what other nightmares lurk in the
heart of these mountains. And I know, in a way I wish I
didn't, that some mysteries are better left undiscovered, some
fears better left unchallenged. For in the midst, there are
things that defy understanding, that challenge the very nature
of reality. And once you've seen them, once
you've looked into the abyss, there's no going back.
You're changed, marked by an experience that defies
explanation, that haunts you long after the dawn has broken
and the world has moved on and all you can do is wait and watch
and hope that the mist doesn't bring your nightmares back to
life.